The Forgotten Crown

Chapter Twenty

Sweat rolled down Alastair's brow, the early morning sun beating down on him from the windows above. He stared holes into the hardwood floor, his arms burning as he pushed his body above the surface. Alastair bent his elbows again until his chest hovered just inches from the floor. For two hours he'd been at this, exercising each part of his body to the near breaking point. And the sun was only peeking over the sleeping city.

He was alone in the barracks, his labored breathing echoing into the vast space. Through the glass ceiling above, the faintest chord of a bird's song reached him. It was the only other noise in the entire space. Alastair sent out the morning patrols earlier than usual, tripling the guards in and around the palace. None of them questioned him. They didn't need to. In only a day, the entire castle—guards, servants, and courtiers alike—was aware of the incident. Fear collected so thick in the air he could taste it.

Every inch of him ached as he stood, stretching his arms overhead. Alastair rolled his shoulders, ignoring his pleading muscles as he made his way over to the weapons rack. He grabbed his favorite practice sword, a sturdy blade with a blunted edge. All the practice weapons were dull. It was the only reason he had allowed Morana to use one.

He narrowed his eyes on the wooden torso before him, widening his stance. He wouldn't let himself think about her, or how much of a bumbling idiot he had been the night before. A muscle in his jaw tightened.

Alastair twisted his body, swinging the sword around him and impaling the target's neck. He imagined that would be the way he'd kill the bastard responsible for everything that had happened. Though, the blade he'd use would be sharp enough to separate their head from their torso. Alastair's knuckles turned white as he ripped the sword away and struck again with lethal proficiency. Repeatedly, he hurled strike after strike into the target.

There was so much to think about, to calculate, and to investigate. It was the reason he sat on the edge of his bed for most of the night, rubbing at his eyes and temples. The remnants of a migraine still pulsed like dying embers around his temples as he delivered another blow. He may have prayed for sleep had the images of his guards' bloodied and shredded skin not flashed through his mind every time he closed his eyes.

Alastair jabbed at the target, lodging his weapon deep into the abdomen, wood splintering. His breaths were quick and labored. He glared down at the blade and then dropped his arm to his side. The sword stayed put.

He had gone to see the guards the night before, after his altercation with the prince. He could still feel the heat of Jovah's magick, the rage that fueled it. The prince successfully made him feel like the worst captain in history, so he'd gone to visit the guards he'd publically humiliated. He couldn't speak with them though, not that they would want to have a conversation after what he'd done. They slept upon the beds within the Healers' Cabins along the outskirts of the grounds, wrapped up in bandages that covered the entirety of their upper body. With Oddea's gifts, the healers could patch them up in no time. Though, knowing that did little to calm the turmoil in Alastair's stomach. Perhaps he would visit them again and properly apologize.

He should have bled alongside them. Someone attempted to end Queen Isleen's life. In the middle of the day. Inside the most secure room of the entire palace. The goblin snuck past his guards, somehow evaded the wards, and would have succeeded in its treacherous task had that poor servant not walked in. It was the first time in nine years that something so sinister happened within the palace walls.

And where had the brilliant Alastair Immeril, Captain of the Royal Guard, been during that time? He had gone for a stroll with a woman. He joyously agreed to train her in the exact pit that he now stood alone in. Alastair laughed and toyed and smiled with a halfling captive. As someone murdered a servant.